The great Celestial Throne Plaza was preparing for an event that only occurred when an emperor approached the time to choose a consort.
Thousands of standards waved with symbols of noble houses.
The five white stone paths leading to the center of the plaza were guarded by imperial soldiers and monks from the ancestral temple.
And at the highest point, on the golden terrace of the Golden Dragon Hall, stood the ceremonial throne.
Jin Long was already there.
Motionless. Majestic.
His face covered by a ritual gold mask in the shape of a sleeping dragon.
Tradition dictated that, in this symbolic ceremony, the Emperor had to observe the candidates presented by the Council...
And accept or reject the flame burning before them.
If the fire rose high, it was a sign of favor.
If it went out, it was the end of aspiration.
No one had managed to light that flame for more than twenty years.
Suwei was the last to present himself.
